


Solar Plexus

by thetreesgrowodd



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Case Fic, Domestic Violence, Dreams, Established Relationship, Haunted Houses, Lovecraftian, M/M, Magical Realism, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Nightmares, POV Alternating, Post Reichenbach, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach, Supernatural Elements, Weirdness, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:52:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 17,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetreesgrowodd/pseuds/thetreesgrowodd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a rural village, Sherlock and John investigate decades-old murders which blur the line between cold case and folklore. In a cursed place, they search for the past... and the past searches for <i>them</i>.</p><p>Slight AU with magical and supernatural elements. Asexual, sensual Sherlock/bisexual John in an established (yet poorly defined) relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Amazing fanart](http://thetreesgrowodd.tumblr.com/post/64544391100/stitchnik-they-just-look-at-each-other-and) by [tallenough](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tallenough) aka Stitchnik! This is a scene from chapter 3, but it's not spoilery.

"Two beds." Sherlock smiles his Real Human Person smile at the old man behind the desk.

*

There are two types of cheap hotel rooms, John thinks — the ones with polyester bedspreads, light-blocking curtains, and clean grey lino, and the ones with creaking, uneven floorboards, plumbing that knocks in the walls, and mysterious drafts and odors. One too new and too soulless, and the other too old and too full of lingering reminders of the past.

John, who has some experience with shitty hotel rooms, prefers the bland, generic, new ones because Sherlock doesn't get distracted by them. And this room is _not_ that type. It's just as old and haunted (maybe figuratively, maybe literally) as one would expect in a village this ancient and remote.

It's night — they've arrived awfully late — but the sky hasn't gotten dark. It's stayed a whitish-yellow, bright enough that every tree branch and telephone wire and crooked television arial are starkly silhouetted against it. Must be low clouds, bouncing light back, John thinks, putting his bags down next to Sherlock's on the second bed, but he's never seen anything like it before, not even in the desert.

After washing and checking his email (he can get a wi-fi signal only when the bathroom door is open, he discovers), John gets into bed with a sigh. Sherlock is on the floor, arse in the air, chin nearly touching the floorboards like a cat at a mouse hole, studying the faint marks there. It's just for his own amusement — it's unlikely to be related to their case. John has seen him do this before, and right now he doesn't want to hear the story of how some chambermaid fought off a drunkard or some highwayman shot his partner for snoring, so he closes his eyes and tries to sleep.

Through his eyelids he sees a familiar bluish flash across the room and feels the accompanying cool tingle over his whole body, as if the air has suddenly become carbonated and the bubbles are rushing up around him, hitting him from below, then zig-zagging across his skin. It smells of clean rain.

Sherlock's ability, his _ergon_ , doesn't magically give him the answers, as some who have failed to appreciate his brilliance have assumed. There are no shades of the past that rise and reenact their final moments, no secrets whispered in his ear by invisible mouths. The ergon only heightens Sherlock's senses, shines a light on the things Sherlock wants to highlight as his mind works through the details.

*

It's later — John has dozed off — when Sherlock slips into bed with him. Even on the rare nights when Sherlock tries not to disturb him, John always wakes up. Sherlock moves John's elbow out of the way and settles with the tip of his nose against John's earlobe and one arm across John's chest. Inside his wrist, nestled beside his veins, Sherlock's ergon channel still glows a rainwater blue. John sighs and forgets halfway through if it's a sigh of annoyance or of contentment.

Blue is the most common ergon color. The majority of people, John included, have blue as one of the colors they can produce, if not the _only_ one. Despite how common it is, John thinks Sherlock's blues are the most interesting he's seen; clear and clean and pure, everything from a pale aqua to a near gunmetal grey. While no one questions that the color of one's ergon can shift through a range of hues, there is no clear consensus on _why_ it happens. After living with Sherlock Holmes, John is a strong believer that it's based on mood, after watching Sherlock produce only shades of blue when he is in the doldrums between cases, and then an astonishing number of different colors when he is on cases. He can't think of a color he hasn't seen come from Sherlock at one time or another.

John considers turning his head to kiss Sherlock (who doesn't mind it as long as it isn't keeping him from Work or Science or Thinking and even — when in the right mood — seems to enjoy it). But he's already drifting off into a shallow sleep, like floating underwater, and the thought merges seamlessly into dreams until he isn't sure if he actually did it, or just dreamed it.

Then his dreaming mind slams into something else. _The beams above them creaking, breaking, the ceiling crashing down on both of them — and heavy blades slicing down to sever their necks — and impossibly heavy weights on fraying cords that will drop onto their fragile skulls before John can deflect them..._

Sherlock catches John's flailing hands without comment, snapping him out of the nightmare, and John struggles to breathe evenly and deeply for a moment while Sherlock makes muzzy noises in his ear.

"Sorry. Sorry," John says. "God I'm — I'm dripping sweat." He fans the covers against himself.

"S'alright. Like your sweat."

Despite Sherlock's dragging arms, John sits up and tugs his damp tee shirt off. He uses it to wipe his skin and tosses it at the floor, then lies back, twisting to face Sherlock.

"Like this too," Sherlock says and pulls and positions John closer, like he's a body pillow here to support and contour to Sherlock. Bare chests and arms against each other.

"I know." John smiles a little and runs his hand over Sherlock's hair, the ridges of his ear, his cheek.

The dream imagery isn't new or unexpected anymore. John has made a conscious decision that he can't spare the energy to be worried by it every time it crops up, asleep or awake. Oh, it's terrifying, these things hanging over them, but it's turned into more of a slow, familiar, stalking fear, a beast that John expects to find around every corner, sees in every darting movement in his peripheral vision, and thus doesn't allow to startle him. For now he has resigned himself to patience and vigilance and caution rather than the panic, even if the dreams may be an omen of things to come.


	2. Chapter 2

John is still sleeping when Sherlock gets up and shuts himself in the bathroom with his small suitcase. He turns on the shower but doesn't get in. Instead he takes everything out of his bag and lifts up the false bottom. There, hidden in the thick base that supports the wheels, is a wooden box.

At home Sherlock keeps it in the wall, accessible through a panel in the medicine cabinet. The box has an ergon lock, although a good hiding place is preferable (to Sherlock, all locks say 'open me').

The box contains something personal that Sherlock has experimented with and used occasionally. He doesn't want to have to explain it to John or Lestrade or anyone else because they'll focus on the wrong aspects _(illegal — potentially harmful — disrespectful — mad)_ and completely fail to see how necessary, how _brilliant_ it is.

The box also contains three sealed letters. Sherlock wrote them a few years ago, in a surprisingly steady hand for someone who was about to jump off of a building. No one has ever read them — no one has ever needed to. They're only partially relevant to his life now, but he's kept them in case his motivation and judgement in faking his own death is ever called into question.

One envelope is marked: _Medical personnel — open immediately in the event of my death or severe injury_. Another says: _John Watson — open in the event of my death or long-term incapacitation_. The third says: _Sherlock — open this if your brain or memory have been damaged_. Sherlock leaves the letters in the box, uses some of the box's _other_ contents, and locks and hides the box.

*

"Watch your heads, dears!" the woman calls urgently as Sherlock and John come down the stairs.

_(owner — wife of the man at the desk last night — Mrs. Hart then — assumes Sherlock hasn't noticed how low the arch is — he knows exactly how low it is — his hair is brushing the ceiling — of course most people would duck automatically — she addressed them in the plural — but John is clearly visible and clearly short — not very observant)_

She seats them for coffee and, in John's case, breakfast. Sherlock is officially on the case now and therefore is officially not eating. There are only a few small tables and a bar, all empty, but even in the rare event of the inn being filled to capacity (all six rooms) they can't all be necessary. Mrs. Hart flutters around and makes small talk. 

She obviously tends to the guests' rooms. Sherlock wonders what she'll think of their untouched second bed. Sherlock isn't ashamed of his situation with John — being ashamed of it would be _absurd_. But he knows that two men staying in a room with a single bed in a tiny village inn would draw extra attention to themselves, and extra attention isn't always conducive to investigating. That's why they got a double room. But this morning Sherlock couldn't be bothered with the effort of actually making the second bed look slept it — it would have felt too much like hiding, like shame. He will let her draw whatever conclusions she can.

Sherlock puts on his People Skills Face. "We thought we'd do a bit of sightseeing today. Can you tell us where to find Brazington House?"

"Oh, you're here for that. I wondered if you were — we don't get a lot of visitors! I've got a book about it. Hang on a tick!" She rushes out of the room.

Sherlock takes his coffee to the window. They'd arrived too late the night before to see much of the village. There still isn't much to see, just greys and greens, but he studies it anyway while John eats.

She returns _(dust on hips from wiping her hands — red-faced — has been rummaging in boxes)_ with a slim book, little more than a pamphlet, in her hands. "My husband and I put this together — oh must have been ten years ago now. Researched it all and wrote it up ourselves. Put it together and sent it off to a place that printed them for us. It's ten pounds, dear, if you'd like one — only because of the printing and shipping and whatnot or otherwise I'd make you a better deal, but we really did put our hearts into it."

"Lovely. Add it to our bill," Sherlock says without hesitation, although he could haggle her down. John, face angled so she can't see, gives Sherlock an incredulous look. Sherlock quirks the corner of his mouth in reply as she hands it over.

It has spiral binding and a laminated yellow cover with text in a tacky 'handwritten' font. The black and white cover illustration is of a house that seems to be listing dramatically, on one side sunk up to its second floor windows in the ground. Motion lines indicate that it is sinking, being sucked down into quicksand-like earth. Sherlock gives it a once-over — that same tiresome font throughout — and passes it to John.

"There's a map in there to the house, but I'm afraid after traveling all this way for it, it might be a bit of a disappointment," Mrs. Hart says.

"Why's that?" John asks.

"Not really that much to see. The history is the int'resting part, really. A few summers back, this lot of Japanese turned up with video cameras, making a program about — British folklore or some such. Bless them, I think they'd expected to walk right into Sunken Brazington House for tea and a tour. They can't have got much good video for their program. Now, the gravesites, on the other hand, they're worth seeing."

Sherlock has no use for the graves unless he can examine the contents, and that's unlikely. Mrs. Hart opens the pamphlet on the table and talks John through a map. John is following along attentively and nodding.

"This is excellent. You seem to be the local expert on the place," John says with his relaxed but fascinated mannerism that makes people — especially old ladies — take to him. It's almost flirty, but in a non-threatening, favorite-nephew kind of way. "We're actually here working on a book — Sherlock specializes in research and I do the actual writing. If you don't mind, we may interview you for it."

"Oh, you're writers!" She beams from one of them to the other.

Sherlock smiles his tight smile. This is their pre-planned cover story. Sherlock secretly has cover story B and cover story C ready as well, just in case.

"Ah, we'll credit you fully of course. And the last thing we want to do is take advantage of all your hard work and just lift your facts out of here." John gestures to the pamphlet. "We may need access to your sources."

"Of course, of course."

And John, just like that, has an open invitation to her sources. _Brilliant John._ Now, whether or not her souces are actually _factual_ is another matter.

"We'll want to go see what we can see for ourselves first, of course. Get a fresh interpretation without setting up too many expectations in advance." John points to the map. "So it's... here?"

She nods. "Mmm. The path's a bit tricky. To be honest, I haven't been there since I was even younger than you. I don't suppose you'll have much trouble — you both look athletic enough, though I'd feel horrible if you fell and broke a leg or drowned. There used to be a proper road of course, but then no one had need of it anymore and then there were landslides and things. Whole area's unstable."

Unstable land. Not looking too good for the supernatural theory, then.

"Excellent. Then we'll be off, won't we John?" Sherlock says, eager to be rid of Mrs. Busybody.

"Right then. Do you mind if I...?" John sandwiches some bacon between two slices of toast, wraps it in a paper towel and puts it in his pocket, like someone's fussy grandparent. Sherlock knows John does it in his never ending quest to save Sherlock from bouts of low blood sugar (yes, they've happened and aren't exactly pleasant, but Sherlock has always handled it). John never nags Sherlock about eating, never comments or chides, but always seems to have food in his pockets. It's strangely endearing, even if Sherlock never eats any of it. Curious.


	3. Chapter 3

John and Sherlock head out with the hand-drawn map in the book as their guide and get their first real look at the village. It's hilly, and the roads and footpaths are winding. John supposes it's quaint in a predictable sort of way. They haven't gone far when Sherlock steps off the road to clamber up a steep hill.

"What are you doing?"

"Higher ground, John!"

John hesitates, fighting the automatic response to follow Sherlock. The ground is soft and muddy and he can see Sherlock's feet slipping on the grass — in fact, he's using his hands nearly as much as his feet. John decides he likes it where he is, here on the road, although he soon realizes that puts him in the position of having to face any passing locals.

"Good morning," John says with a forced pleasantness to a man walking by and staring at Sherlock, who is now standing at the top, completely still and, apparently, staring at the horizon. "We were just... admiring your lovely village."

When Sherlock finally climbs back down, his gloves are under his armpit and his bare hands are muddy from the climb. He gingerly fishes a handkerchief from his pocket and scrubs at his hands as they walk. John fights the impulse to help — he really, _really_ does, because Sherlock is an adult and certainly isn't helpless — but, inevitably, he loses the internal battle. It makes him irritable.

"Here," John snaps, stopping Sherlock. He pours out a little water from a bottle onto his own handkerchief. Sherlock, unquestioningly, holds his hands out for John to wipe. The mud has settled in the lines across his palms, making them stand out starkly. Sherlock's hands are large and pale with the cold and beautiful.

*

For some time now, John has had a mental image of Sherlock being born into the world from a dark hole in the ground. Feral from isolation and crazed with the need for light, Sherlock claws his way up, mud in his hair and on his face and squelching between his fingers.

It's not that John doesn't believe Sherlock was ever a baby. He's met Sherlock's mother, for pity's sake. It's easy to picture Sherlock as a baby, existing in the comfort of his mother's womb, then being wholly dependent on her milk, on her picking him up and forcing her nipple into his mouth at regular intervals.

Then, a bit later, John imagines Mycroft (pudgy, serious-faced, and for some reason, dressed in old-fashioned short trousers and looking like he stepped out of a stiffly-posed sepia photo) leaning over Sherlock's cot. Sherlock's eyes are wide, overeager, and struggling to focus as Mycroft uses his ergon to create gusts of wind that pick up plush toys, brightly colored flashes of light, and gentle puffs of hot and cold air. It's out of curiosity (how will Sherlock react?) and it's also a challenge (what will Sherlock _do?_ ).

In a quieter moment, Mycroft grasps Sherlock's tiny, waving fists and spreads the fingers of each in turn to stare intently at the teardrop-shaped ergon duct between the thumb and index finger — at that age, little more than a dimple — to search for any hint of light or color within.

Then there's a gap of years. And then something has gone _wrong_ , and Sherlock is alone, down in the dark. He's older, just shy of puberty, precocious, and far too clever. But he's been left down in that chasm and everyone has given up on him. Any sane, good person would have hoped he'd had a merciful death rather than _existing_ for that amount of time. The dark should have killed him, or at least twisted him into something vile and useless. But Sherlock has made his choice, and climbs out of the dark, and isn't sure if he loves or hates the sun (whichever it is, it's _a lot_ ) but letting the dark have him for any longer is unacceptable.

It's a ridiculous idea, but none the less, one that John hasn't been able to shake. Although Sherlock doesn't talk about his childhood much, and John has never asked (he can't let Sherlock know that he knows about this, it's just too cruel, but that makes no sense because _it isn't real_ , it's just John's imagination), there has never been any suggestion that something of the sort actually happened to Sherlock.

John has decided that it's his unconscious mind's depiction of Sherlock's drug addiction and recovery. Sherlock as a child is a visual representation of Sherlock's vulnerability during that time. Yes, that makes the most sense. That's what it must be. John puts it out of his mind, but sometimes — like now, seeing mud on Sherlock's hands — it comes back to him.

*

"This is it," Sherlock says some twenty minutes later. Once they'd gotten out of the heart of the village and taken the fork of the road indicated on the map, they'd hit the overgrown, tricky path. There is a steep ravine running along the side of it with a stream at the bottom (that explained Mrs. Hart's concern about drowning). A few trees, their roots exposed from erosion, grow out of the sides and on the edge. Some of the rocks have a pitted appearance, almost volcanic.

"It's obvious from here, isn't it? Sinkholes, cave-ins, landslides, this whole area," John says, disappointed at the logical explanation for the supposed supernatural event. "Maybe there's nothing to this after all. Just unstable land."

"No. The majority of the unsolved deaths and disappearances were people who lived in the house, or were otherwise connected to the Brazington family. After the house sank, it all stopped. There was never any proof of a direct link between the two, but there has to be a connection," Sherlock says.

What had looked like an empty, grassy field on Google Earth looks much the same in person. There are remains of a low stone wall with a rusty gate, traces of what may have been garden paths and borders of flower beds, and a few trees that have reached a compromise with the wind. The wind here is strong even now, loud in John's ears, ripping at his jacket, swirling Sherlock's coat as if he were a villain in a superhero film. Then, beyond it all — the edge of a cliff, and at last, the ocean.

Cautiously, John picks his way toward a depression. There are things scattered deep in the tall grasses — badly weathered boards, stone blocks. _Something_ man-made once stood here. 

"Not quite like the book cover, is it?" Sherlock asks.

Then John spots something — stone and metal — jutting up out of the ground and not quite identifiable. It's solid when he prods it with his toe, then kicks it. With a gleam in his eyes, Sherlock kneels next to it, taking off his right glove and putting it in his pocket. John kneels down too, his knees popping, as Sherlock puts his hand to it and pours his ergon into it to seek out its boundaries.

The smell of ergon fills the air as seconds pass. Exploring a small object, even one with a lot of resistance, wouldn't take this long.

"John," Sherlock says simply, and John puts his left hand against the exposed structure and lets his ergon run alongside Sherlock's. It travels down, far under the ground, exploring the structure, finding the paths of least resistance, using natural fissures where it can and — where necessary — forging new paths. Doing so doesn't actually harm objects — the tunnels and pathways aren't detectable to non-ergon science — but it does leave traces in other ways.

They coordinate their efforts wordlessly, each doing the majority of the work on one side, but helping the other break down the more difficult barriers. Touching one's ergon to another's like this isn't something that one does lightly. It's far too intimate to do with strangers, aside from emergency situations (and medical — John has certainly had to do it in order to repair blocked ergon channels, or when performing difficult surgeries). Friends don't even usually let their ergon touch. And even on their difficult cases, John and Sherlock had never attempted it until after they'd known each other for several years... after Sherlock's return, after _everything_ changed. John had some experience with it — he'd even tried the taboo act of _mixing_ his ergon with a girlfriend's once —but none recently. And aside from John, Sherlock said he'd only ever done it with his immediate family members (mainly Mycroft) as a boy. But, once the initial awkwardness was over, John and Sherlock quickly learned that they worked well using their ergon together, and it became comfortable, natural.

Exploring an object like this is like stretching out into the dark with a phantom limb. Their ergon maps out a rough shape, the skeleton of the thing, but not details. They learn the general shape through sensations which are similar to touch but can't really be equated to any of the senses. They look up at each other at the same time, as they realize just how massive this thing under the ground is, and begin to piece together the shape of it. 

Here and there, they have followed false paths — tree roots that touch the structure, loose stones, other objects. But there is no question. It is a three story stone house. It's mostly intact, although battered — windows broken, floors sagging, tree roots invading, a few walls crumbling or gone altogether — but it's _there_ , below their feet, impossible and _real_.

They just look at each other and laugh, because this is _mad_ and neither of them had expected it to be like this, just like the stories said — inexplicably underground and whole. People had lived in it, been born in it, died in it, maybe _murdered_ in it, and then the earth had swallowed it up. Sherlock's laugh is in John's ears and flowing through his ergon and his face is so different, so _unguarded_ , when he laughs.


	4. Chapter 4

John's ergon is a misty orange today, like a winter sunrise. Sherlock's is still blue ( _Blue_. What is blue but another word for _common_?). Although Sherlock thinks he could stay here with his ergon pulsing alongside John's through the veins of the impossible house, he cuts off the flow and takes his hand away. As expected, John does the same. On cases, Sherlock always tries to get John to conserve his ergon, because in an emergency John's fighting and healing skills would be essential. Once used, ergon dissipates, and there are no shortcuts to regenerating it — the body simply needs ample time. It would be foolish to let John exhaust his precious ergon on investigation.

They stay on the site well into the afternoon, although there isn't much to see — just the remains of the house's foundations, the mouth of a well, and a few collapsed outbuildings. Sherlock finds a metal toy soldier that has rested in the weeds and the dirt for decades and slips it into his pocket. The clues are running dry and the wind is tiring, but Sherlock isn't ready to go. He's itching, just _itching_ , to crack this house open.

Sherlock maps some of the tree roots (it's easier to get ergon to flow through living things, and wood in particular has natural channels in it) and finds that there are cavities deep under their feet, including a large cavern which a corner of the house juts into. He can't tell if any of the caves connect to the surface, as they are complicated and the stone is dense, but if they do the house might be accessible. They might be able to enter it. The thought makes his heart beat faster and his blood rush in his veins.

Inspecting the tiny bit of the house that they can see (which they now know is part of the roof), Sherlock and John bounce theories back and forth about how the house could have sunk into the ground like this, intact and leaving its foundations behind, but they can't come up with a working theory. There is no sink hole, there are no mounds of displaced earth, and they can't figure out how anyone could do this so neatly, either using ergon or machinery. They're discussing construction crews being brought in to build the thing underground as a hoax and are dangerously close to suggesting even more farfetched explanations (aliens and vengeful spirits, perhaps) when Sherlock cuts off the conversation with a groan of frustration and drags his fingers through his hair.

He walks away from John; he can't stay still. _What made this house go down like a sinking ship? What metaphorical iceberg did it hit?_ He stalks over to the cliff. At the very edge, he leans out and stares down at the sea, far below. There may be openings or sea caves in the cliff face, but it's too steep and jagged to see them from here. Maybe they can hire a boat.

"Sherlock."

Something is wrong with John's voice. Sherlock turns quickly. He hasn't heard that tone since...

John is a few paces back, reaching out as if any movement might startle Sherlock into toppling forward and over the edge. His eyebrows are pinched in the middle, making deep furrows in his brow. What is he —

_Oh. Stupid._ Sherlock steps back and lets John's fingers close in the fabric of his coat. Despite the nightmares and flashbacks of falling from St. Bart's roof, Sherlock has never developed a healthy, self-preserving fear of heights. Right now, John seems to have enough for both of them — but he knows, he must know that Sherlock hadn't really been in any danger.

"Let's go back. Get a coffee. Maybe see the graves," Sherlock says, looking back toward the path. 

Taking deep breaths and trying to hide them, John nods. When they are safely away from the edge, John's arm slips down to Sherlock's waist. Sherlock puts his arm around John's shoulders in return.

*

They walk to a café in the village. As John gets a sandwich for himself and two coffees, the girl at the counter checks John's finger for a ring (although the wedding ring on her _own_ finger and the lingering fat from a recent pregnancy suggest she is far from unattached). While she gets their order, she chats and smiles at him. John leans forward against the counter in an unconscious gesture of interest and laughs too long at something she says. Sherlock decides that he _hates_ this place and that they aren't coming back _ever_.

Then John turns around with a cup of coffee in each hand. At the sight of Sherlock, he smiles. Sherlock thinks that for his own mental health he needs to see John holding two cups of coffee _every day_ for the rest of his life.

*

Sherlock doesn't have much interest in the graves. He's already found photos of the headstones online, and as consecrated ground blocks ergon, he doubts he will be able to find any new information. However, there had been that case (pre-John, during Sherlock's rocky cleaning-up and becoming person again days) where a single yellow rose left on a grave had led him to a murderer, so it might be worth his time.

The cemetery turns out to be peaceful and entirely ordinary. With Mrs. Hart's booklet as a reference, they find the graves of the victims and study them. Then Sherlock paces, thinking it all over, but no new insight hits him. John sits on a low wall and looks through the book again.

A grey and white cat leaps up silently beside John. Amused, Sherlock watches as it sniffs John's elbow, then butts its head against him, eager for petting. John starts, but when he sees the cat he strokes it and speaks soothing nonsense to it.

It's John's nature to reach out to others. He _sees_ those in need, draws them out. Even those who don't realize they need help. Even someone who had never before believed that contact with another human could be beneficial... that it could improve his life, that it could make him feel whole. Somehow — _somehow_ — John has drifted through a world of needy people, touching others only briefly as he passes by, and has come to Sherlock. And has _stayed_.

Early on, it had been enough to passively appreciate John. They existed together and breathed the same air and talked about inconsequential things. But then, Sherlock had found that he thought about John more and more. Like the restless moods that make him prowl the flat, manic with boredom, or the obsession that makes him go over the clues again and again when he can't solve a case, sometimes the need to express his affection for John overtakes him. And at first, he doesn't know what's happening or what to do.

*

_Sherlock's fingers trace down the door until his hand rests on the knob. He doesn't turn it. He doesn't rattle it . He's just touching it. John is on the other side and he wants so badly to —_

And —

_The day after he 'died,' Sherlock finds John's handkerchief in his pocket. He hasn't held on to it on purpose, doesn't consciously made it a memento, but —_

And —

_Wrapped in a sheet, Sherlock lingers in the doorway. "You're singing."_

_"Oh." John looks surprised. "Yeah. Did I — sorry if I woke you."_

_"No. It was nice. It was kind of nice."_

_"Oh. Thanks?" John looks like he can't tell if Sherlock is taking the mickey or not._

_"Yes, well. If you feel like it again, go ahead." Sherlock goes back to his bedroom._

*

Sherlock regards most romantic gestures with scorn. The giving of chocolates, the constant silly texting, the arse-grabbing in public — simple, meaningless gestures from simple, meaningless people. He hates those things, and he won't do them — he is _Sherlock Holmes_ , and this is _John Watson_ — he has to be able to come up with something better.

What of the larger gestures? Life and death? Giving a kidney to a loved one, or parenting a child together, or killing or (if matters came to it) _being_ killed to save someone?

But John doesn't need a kidney, adopting a child is currently unfeasible, and the opportunity to save John's life doesn't present itself nearly as often as Sherlock would like. John invades Sherlock's mind like an unidentified bloody fingerprint at a locked-room suicide, and Sherlock is left with no adequate outlet for his feelings for John.

What else _is_ there? Poetry? _(NO)_ Gift-giving? _(John won't accept many)_ Food preparation? _(Dull)_

All that is left is physical contact. And so, Sherlock discovers that he can say a silent, 'You're the best thing in my life,' and, 'I believe things now that I couldn't before,' and, 'I thought I was the most I could possibly be, but I was wrong — I'm better with you,' using his lips and hands against John's skin. It is primitive, unsophisticated, perhaps, but it _works_.

He's drawn to where John is now. John is still rubbing the cat's ears, and the cat is leaning into it with a blissful look. John has given it some of the leftover bacon, but it has left most of it. The state of the village is all right here in this simple creature. _(no collar — no owner — fat — sleek — unafraid of strangers — eager for attention but not_ starved _for it — people take care of it — people here are_ kind _— so why the murders — disappearances — unexplained phenomenon — in this village of nice people — why has no one actually investigated — why hasn't the internet devoured the urban legend — why is the light wrong here — why is the air wrong here — what am I missing what what what—)_

"Anything of interest?" John asks.

_Yes. You._


	5. Chapter 5

As a boy, John had discovered H.P. Lovecraft. He hadn't particularly been into either sci-fi or horror, but he'd picked the book up because the macabre cover art gave him a thrill. He'd had required silent reading time in school, and reading it in front of his teacher and classmates had made John feel rebellious and daring. The stories themselves had been tough, with their strange, old-fashioned prose and lack of dialogue, but he liked the tone and the atmosphere, so he kept reading.

He hasn't even thought about Lovecraft in years, but right now it feels like they are in one of his stories. Not in the _horrific_ parts yet, just in the opening pages where the world still seems normal, and the only hints of anything wrong are vague rumors and a sense of something _lurking_. But soon they'll get into the story — they'll get into that house (because they _will_ , John knows they will. The thought of it is already pulling at both of them) and there they'll find their own Shining Trapezohedron or stone carving of an anthropoid octopus/dragon and they'll realize too late that they've passed the point of no return.

But when have they ever turned away from danger?

They're back in their room at the inn. It has been immaculately made up and the late afternoon sun through the windows is bright and warm. On their way up the stairs, Mrs. Hart had greeted them with a promise to get her list of sources together for them, and no comment whatsoever about the unused second bed. Now John is watching Sherlock strip that bed and arrange the pillows and bedding in the corner by the desk. _Well, the bed won't look untouched tomorrow, will it?_ Sherlock finishes by dragging two chairs over and draping a blanket across their backs. 

John recognizes the behavior as Sherlock building one of his Thinking Nests. He'll probably be in there until morning, mulling the case over. In Lovecraft's world, it was actually safer _not_ thinking, _not_ questioning anything out of the ordinary. Putting the pieces together was what caused madness. John rubs his eyes. Sherlock's sanity would never last long in a world with the Old Ones in it.

As Sherlock crawls under his blanket to think in silence, John turns on his laptop and tries to find a position on the bed that is both comfortable and gets him a decent wi-fi signal. He's going to have to keep himself entertained until Sherlock is ready to emerge. He can at least try to be helpful, and something Mrs. Hart said earlier gave him an idea.

What John hopes will take fifteen or twenty minutes of searching turns into hours of trying to understand Japanese websites run though an online translator, and digging through listings of torrents. When he finally looks up again, the sun has set and the room is almost completely dark. His eyes ache from the computer screen, but he thinks he's found the series of documentaries about British folklore. He hasn't been able to figure out which episode had been filmed here, so he's just downloading all of them. The files are huge and there aren't many seeds and the downloads are barely crawling along, but he feels a sense of satisfaction in hunting them down.

Careful to position the laptop where it has a signal, John gets up and turns on the lamp and shuts the drapes. The floorboards creak and pop under each step. "Sherlock," he says, hunting for his shoes while waiting patiently through Sherlock's obligatory 'I'm finishing my train of thought before replying' silence. He's tying his second shoelace when Sherlock lifts a corner of the blanket and looks out.

"You're going out for food and you want to know what I want," Sherlock says.

"Yeah."

"You're going to that coffee shop again." Sherlock sounds disapproving.

John isn't sure why Sherlock cares. "Yeah. Something wrong?"

"...No."

John stands up and checks that he has his key. "Good, because we don't exactly have a lot of choices. But they're open late. I asked earlier."

Sherlock drops the blanket back into place. "Fine," he says, sounding like it's anything _but_ fine. "Just coffee."

"Back in a bit," John says. Sometimes it's easier to not question Sherlock's moods.

It's chilly out and dark, aside from the occasional lit window. It feels strange after London, where it's never truly dark even in the dead of night. John creates a warm, orange light in his left hand and focuses it into a beam like a torch. Leaves and gravel crunch under his feet and his breath sounds loud in his ears. There's a sudden skittering in a tree branch overhead, but John's ability to remain outwardly calm has been tested by far more. He's learned not to react, not even to flinch, to avoid drawing attention to himself.

He wonders what would happen if he returned to the room to find Sherlock gone. Maybe he would discover that Sherlock had never returned from the dead at all. Or maybe that Sherlock had never existed at all, that he had just been a product of John's mind... It's just that Sherlock still feels so ephemeral sometimes.

During the years he'd believed Sherlock was in his grave, John had convinced himself that an early death had been inevitable for Sherlock. How could he have ever possibly lived to see forty? Even more, John had believed that he himself had encouraged it — _enabling_ , his therapist would have called it. _Codependency_. More painful still had been the thought that John, and John _alone_ , could have calmed Sherlock's self-destructive need to seek out danger, if only John hadn't still been so broken himself. If he'd just sorted himself out after coming back to London, if he hadn't gone straight to racing along on the edge behind Sherlock, if only he'd gotten his balance back first, Sherlock might have lived.

Now, John thinks there is some truth in it, but mostly it had been John, in grief, trying to make sense of something that couldn't make sense. With Sherlock back and vibrant and alive, neither of them seem as damaged or reckless as he'd thought. Most of the time. Once he would have given anything for the ability to go back in time and reign Sherlock in, but now that he's here, it doesn't seem necessary. Maybe it should worry him that his perspective changed so drastically.

Stepping into the coffee shop is a relief after the cold, dark night. It's warm and bright, full of the sound of human conversation and the smell of coffee. He's longing for caffeine and food — he's starting to register the exhaustion of the day.

"Our writer from London!" the girl at the counter calls. John recognizes her from earlier.

"That's me. John," he says, stepping to the counter.

"People've been telling me about you all day. You went to the cemetery after you left here, didn't you? And you were at Brazington House earlier."

"Yeah. I'm seeing about writing a book about it."

"Isn't this place boring though?" she asks with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I'd never leave London if I lived there. Do people there really want to hear about some old murders and all that?"

"Well," John says with a grin, "we have so many _new_ murders there, we thought we could do with some variety."

She laughs, but John wishes he hadn't made the flippant joke. The truth is that there really have been a number of disappearances and mysterious murders in London. Due to how spread out they've been, and details that have been hushed up, the press hasn't given them much attention yet. Scotland Yard worked out that they were likely the work of a serial killer, but it had been Sherlock who noticed certain parallels with the decades-old events in this village. Right now, Lestrade and his team are still trying to work on it in London (and hitting all dead ends), while Sherlock and John are here, acting as Lestrade's secret weapon, trying to crack the cold case in the hopes that it will shed light onto the current case.

"The grass is always greener," she says with a shrug.

John orders two coffees, another sandwich and chips for himself, and a bottle of orange juice for Sherlock. Maybe he can get some calories into that idiot.

She gets his order, going quiet and thoughtful, as if trying to make up her mind about something. "Look," she says, "if you want, my grandad has always told stories about the sunken house and the murders. I mean, who knows if any of it is even true — it might not be. And he might not even want to talk to anybody from the big city..." She glances John over. "But if you want, call me tomorrow — not too early — and I can see if he'll talk to you." She grabs an extra drink sleeve from a dispenser and writes her name — Katie, with the 'i' dotted with a star — and a phone number.

"Oh, cheers," John says, accepting it. "That would be a big help." He puts it into safely into the cardboard drink carrier between his coffee and Sherlock's.

"Yeah, you say that now, but you haven't met him yet." She smirks.

*

Back in the room, John sets down everything on the desk. He takes off his shoes and jacket and steps into the bathroom for a moment to wash. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Sherlock emerge from his makeshift hideout and stand at the desk, looking through what John has brought back. At least he isn't just sitting on his arse and making John pass his coffee in to him.

John bends over the sink to wash his face and neck. The hot water feels great, and John ignores his growling stomach for a moment to do a thorough job. When he's done, he puts the towel aside and turns to leave, but freezes with his finger still on the light switch at what he sees.

Sherlock has stripped himself nude while John wasn't looking. He's standing at the desk, clothes draped over one of the chairs. There are still faint indentations in his skin at the waist from his pants and at the ankles from his socks. He's unaroused, but staring at John with a challenge in his eyes, drinking in his reactions.

For all his brilliance, Sherlock has trouble verbalizing some things. Oh, he can talk all day about things related to cases, or the shortcomings of others. When it comes to Sherlock's feelings or his wants and needs, his words either come out vague and hesitant, or else aggressive and wounding. Or sometimes not at all, as John has learned. When the words are too elusive, Sherlock communicates as best he can in other ways, occasionally resulting in dramatic and poorly-timed gestures like this one.

John has seen this before. It's more than just an invitation to John. Nudity means that Sherlock needs John's affection desperately — and _right now_. He has, of course, realized just how attracted John is to him physically. John has dated well-built men before, men who went to the gym daily and did juice fasting and looked like they should be on the cover of men's fitness magazines, and while their bodies had been attractive, they still hadn't had the same impact on John as Sherlock's does. Sherlock is _gorgeous_ in ways John has never seen before.

"Hey, hey," John says gently, crossing the room to Sherlock. He's caught off guard and worried by Sherlock's unspoken plea for attention. He has no idea what's triggered it. Is it this place? This case? "What's wrong? What happened?" John cups Sherlock's face. "I'm right here, alright? I'm right here."

Despite his concern, John feels a rush of desire as Sherlock presses up against him. Sherlock's mental state and well-being are John's first concern, and John would never take advantage of the situation, but — God, he wants this amazing, beautiful, brilliant man, who for some reason has chosen John as the sole person he'll let get close. And when Sherlock is like this, it has occasionally led to John getting a hand job or even a blow job. John feels a guilty thrill at the thought. Over Sherlock's shoulder, he takes one last glance around the room for any clue of what has unsettled Sherlock. The files are still downloading on the laptop, Sherlock's fort is undisturbed, the drinks and food are spread out on the desk. Nothing is obviously out of place.

"John," Sherlock breathes into his ear, and all John can think about is giving Sherlock whatever he wants, and accepting whatever he offers in return.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock guides John to the armchair. John sits in it, and Sherlock sprawls across his lap. John is still murmuring questions and concerns, but Sherlock ignores him. Let John think him needy — after all, John _likes_ being needed. John is still clothed and the lights are still on — Sherlock wants to be touched and seen. He writhes a little, raising his hips, and moves John's hand to his thigh. Sherlock affects a cherub-pout and relaxes his eyelids and brows, and John leans down to kiss his shoulder.

The night presses in against the old building, and Sherlock presses himself to John, and over on the desk with the forgotten coffee, the cardboard sleeve with Katie-with-a-star's phone number presses against Sherlock.

John is saying something in a soothing voice against Sherlock's neck. His hand is stroking Sherlock's side. It is such a transparent move, taking off his clothes and offering up his body to John, like a peacock spreading his tail. But evolution has given Sherlock his plumage and John likes it. Allowing John to take pleasure in it doesn't go very far in paying John back for all the things that he has given Sherlock, but it's gladly and reverently given, even if Sherlock's motivation is to get them both to forget those numbers —

What are they even but pen strokes on cardboard! Markings that only have any meaning at all because humans have assigned them meanings! What are they compared to a warm, bare, aesthetically pleasing body in one's arms?

Sherlock wears nudity as he would wear a suit. That's not to say it's anything as vulgar as a costume or a disguise (although he knows how to use it as such) — it's more personal, more comfortable than that, like his favorite dressing gowns, or the button-up shirts he buys in the precise size, cut, and color range he prefers. But to Sherlock, nudity simply means he has switched out one suit for another. He never feels that he is nude under his clothing — he never feels that nudity is a default mode.

In his Mental Wardrobe, nudity hangs alongside his other clothes. And if nudity is a suit, then sexuality is a necktie, an accessory that matches it. Sherlock's tie is in the back of a drawer. It's not that he simply choses not to wear it, it's not that it's merely uncomfortable on him. It just _isn't right_ on him. It's never fit him properly. It's never been something he's had any interest in wearing. He's comfortable — he's _himself_ — without it.

He forgets about it for weeks, months even. He might find himself frantically digging in the drawer for pants or vests or socks only to have the tie spill out unexpectedly, tangled up around everything else, nothing but a frustration to be sorted out and put back.

Sometimes, privately, he'll slide the drawer open to look at it, even take it out. He holds it up to his neck and looks at it in the mirror from time to time. When his mood and the situation are just right, he's even worn it outside — but rarely. Others have appreciated the way it looks on him and that's fine, that's flattering even... but the tie just isn't him and doesn't feel right.

Even with John. _Even with John._

This doesn't mean that Sherlock can't appreciate a nice tie on _John_. John wears them in all colors — proudly, comfortably. They look lovely on him, adding to his handsomeness, complementing his own style and personality. Sherlock, in the right circumstances, is happy to help John select a tie, to knot it for him, or to undo it and slide it out from under John's collar. Sometimes, he lets John drape his own tie playfully around Sherlock's neck, to feel the texture and look at the color next to his skin.

It's the people who tell Sherlock that he _should wear a tie_ that Sherlock despises. The people who ask him why he doesn't, who wink and nudge and imply that he wears one in private, who assume it's too ugly a tie to wear in public, who tell him it must just need mending, or assume that the only reasons one wouldn't wear a tie is if they're too immature or unappealing to do it justice. Their ties are all so superficial and tedious and they want him to be the same and Sherlock doesn't want anything to do with them.

Some people have even tried to get to his drawer, to rummage in it looking for his tie, out of their own curiosity or a false concern for Sherlock. He bolted the door against them when he was young and has only recently opened it cautiously to John. John would never try to dig it out and make Sherlock wear it. John accepts that it's in the drawer. John understands that Sherlock's missing tie isn't a problem to be solved.

And it doesn't mean Sherlock can't wear the suit without the tie.

...It doesn't mean Sherlock can't be _devastatingly stunning_ in the suit without the tie.

Regretfully leaving John's hands, Sherlock stands and crosses the room, gesturing for John to stay seated. As John watches (still fully dressed but looking rumpled, breathing elevated, lips swollen) Sherlock switches out the lights from the furthest to nearest — bathroom, bedside lamp, desk lamp — until all that's left is the computer screen. At waist-level it illuminates the front of his body (Sherlock feels John's eyes on him and loves it) as he turns the brightness all the way to off.

He stands in darkness for a few heartbeats, concentrating, blocking out Katie-with-a-star-over-her-name and her meaningless scribbles... _oh Katie-with-a-star, as if you could possibly compare_. Sherlock raises his right hand and makes his own stars. Yellow-white bits of ergon that hang in the air and glow above their heads, connected back to his hand by stretchy filaments so fine they're nearly invisible. It's a silly waste of his energy... but the lights reflected in John's eyes, John's lips parting in wonder...

It's so transparently ostentatious, but Sherlock lets some of the stars settle in his curls and around his shoulders. This pale yellow ergon has a faint smell of fresh-cut vegetation, giving the room a hint of a spring night. Even more stars bloom in clusters around John, not by Sherlock's conscious decision, but as an emotional whim — even so, he likes the effect. Their dim light makes John's face even more handsome, even more warm and strong and delicious. For a dizzy, helpless moment, Sherlock feels dwarfed by his need for John.

Sherlock pulls John up by his wrist then, stars bobbing along, and without giving John a chance to undress, pushes him down onto the bed and curls up against him. This is what Sherlock wants — John dressed and in control, Sherlock naked and submissive. Or the illusion of it anyway. He wants his own body to be an object given to John. He likes the textures of John's clothes against his skin. He traps one of John's thighs between his own, wrapping his legs around it and crossing his ankles. John's thigh is warm, the muscles flexing under the denim against the sensitive skin of the insides of Sherlock's thighs and his genitals.

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock nuzzles John's neck mutely.

They've made no vows. They haven't spoken about how things stand between them or what they want from each other or their hopes for their shared future. The closest they've come was talking about sex. About _neckties_ , about how Sherlock's is in the drawer. That was a very necessary conversation, after Sherlock tried and failed to wear his tie for John. And Sherlock (idiot) had told John to keep dating for sexual gratification _(idiot!)_. He has no claim on John. He has no right to make John throw away the hateful cardboard drink sleeve with Katie-with-an-insignificant-star's number on it.

This case, this brilliant, perplexing mystery, that's bafflingly lain here undisturbed, like unharvested fruit that's dropped from a tree to rot, is the kind of cerebral case that Sherlock loves. Oh, he enjoys the rush of danger too, but it's mapping the mental labyrinths that Sherlock finds most gratifying. What is there here for John? — dear, lovely John — not unintelligent at all, but with a mind that craves adrenaline and endorphins, the chemical rewards of running into danger and shooting a gun and shagging beautiful people. The ergon gloves and gun are in John's bag, just in case... just as the phone number is on the desk, tempting. For a moment, Sherlock wonders if they should have stayed in London.


	7. Chapter 7

All John wants is to lie here in bed with Sherlock and give him pleasure, however he wants it. Sherlock's fairy-lights float around them in a rough dome shape, along with the silvery strings that connect them back to Sherlock's hands in natural, branching shapes — rivers, veins. It's one boundary between them and the outside world ( _what case? what house? what urgency?_ ), between what matters just now and what doesn't. John wants to make another boundary with his arms around Sherlock. He wants to paint a boundary on Sherlock's skin with the heat of his hands — _this is what's important to me, this is the boundary of what I care about_. He wants to engulf Sherlock and also be engulfed by Sherlock, let them share and wrap that boundary around each other.

Sherlock undoes John's top button, pulls his shirt open, and licks contentedly at John's collarbone. It sends tingles through John, sensations of hot and cold. He holds Sherlock close and breathes deeply and restrains himself from _grinding_ hard against Sherlock. It's never damped John's desire, Sherlock not wanting sex. Sometimes, John wishes that Sherlock wanted something so easy to give, to understand. But what Sherlock needs from John is paradoxically more complicated and far simpler than sex — John has barely begun to understand the basics of it — the far corners are still dark to him. With Sherlock, John has had to redefine what it means to be creative in bed (he'd thought he _was_ ), and he's watched Sherlock silently work through what his own role is with John. And they've reached this, this _not-quite-sex_ , this compromise.

It still stuns John when he realizes that he's the one person Sherlock has chosen to compromise with _ever_. What's more, Sherlock has even occasionally ventured _beyond_ the halfway point between being lovers and being platonic. He's taken compromise and vulnerability and fashioned them into presents, offering them up to John. Thrilled, yet terrified of damaging them, John has accepted them as best he can.

But John is still dressed (obviously how Sherlock wants him) and Sherlock is still pressed again him. John can hear the sounds of skin of fabric, Sherlock greedily pressing his skin against the various textures of John's clothes, providing his brain some of the unique stimulation it longs for.

John wants to feel, too. He rolls Sherlock onto his back and scoots down so he can press his face into Sherlock's belly. Sherlock undulates under him and John tries hard to ignore the soft penis — _he could just duck his head and put his mouth on it_... He presses his lips against Sherlock's belly instead. No one else in the world gets to experience the secret, slight layer of softness that's there. No one else can claim responsibility for it being there. No one else has taken care of Sherlock, convinced him to eat.

"John," Sherlock says in a low voice, "look at me." And as John raises himself up and watches, Sherlock arranges himself into a seductive pose. Hips canted, waist twisted, coy angles along his shoulders, neck and chin. It's theatric and over-the-top and just for John. All Sherlock needs are stockings and suggestively slipping lingerie to be an old-fashioned pin-up, John thinks.

Sherlock props his head up, clearly as eager to watch as to be watched. He reaches out and takes John's hand. Presses it to the front of John's trousers.

John doesn't have to ask what it means.

Pleasuring himself to the sight of Sherlock's body should be so crass, so awkward. Instead, it feels intimate, quiet, euphoric. John gives himself over wholly to it. Despite lying still, Sherlock (keen-eyed and fascinated) is in no way a passive element in it. He watches as if John is doing something clever. It's not that the act is a foreign one to Sherlock — he has sometimes even done it with John, although he seems to regard it as little more than regular maintenance of the body, necessary to keep his transport functioning acceptably.

Some of Sherlock's fairy-lights sit in his hair and frame his face, and in their light his skin is smooth and pale, his mouth full and tempting like ripe fruit. Sherlock doesn't need the lights to enhance his good looks, and he knows it. There's a bit of vanity in their creation, but John knows that they are mainly for him. Sherlock wouldn't waste his energy for himself, but he's used them to create a romantic mood for John. It's a token and a concession, one more compromise.

In their quiet bubble, John's breathing and nonsensical whisperings are loud. Sherlock's eyes and focus are on John — John is _so close_ now, and Sherlock must know it. The most rational, aloof, emotionally-guarded man John knows is splayed out unashamedly for him, shifting slightly to highlight different parts of himself for John... chest, arse, a swipe of tongue to his lips, a pass of his hands down his torso... then (John gets a thrill of anticipation at that wicked smirk on his face) Sherlock takes himself in his hand and in one very deliberate gesture pulls his foreskin back. He's _showing John._ And — god — even with Sherlock's lack of arousal it's so dirty and somehow so innocent and that's all it takes for John.

They wind up lying there quietly together. Sherlock's chin and lower lip are pressed against his hairline and John is staring down Sherlock's chest. He's in a pleasant grey space, between normal states of being. In his peripheral vision, he catches glimpses of the yellow-white glowing lines of the ergon channels under the thin skin at Sherlock's wrists and the crooks of his elbows as Sherlock strokes John's back and hair. Soothingly, repetitively, forever.

And now Sherlock is creating something else with his ergon. It's flowing from him, unfurling like sprouting ferns. Another display for John? The streams of blue ergon are thickening, hardening, forming sturdy supports that flow upward into branching lines. Like veins, Sherlock's veins leaving his body to stretch for the ceiling like plants for the sun.

And those fairy-light strings he made earlier are getting caught up in the growing forms, adorning them like a Christmas tree. John is blinking up at it in awe as it grows, umbrella-like, over their heads, more complicated and more massive by the second.

Now Sherlock is adding new colors as well, new vines blooming up. John takes his eyes off of it and is looking at Sherlock. Sherlock is staring up at it, the visual poetry, the colorful music being created in the air, and the forms are reflecting in his wet eyes.

John is looking back up and there's a mist around everything now. Maybe it's smoke actually, coming from inside the roadmap of glowing lines, making the lights dim. And then there is a new color in the mix, swirling up alongside the ergon like oil beside water. A sickly color. A contaminate. John doesn't like it.

"Sherlock, what is that?"

"We each have our own cane, John. You have your cane," Sherlock is wrapping John's hand around his old cane, lying in the bed between them. "And I have my _cocaine_."

John is going cold and ill, as if someone has just slammed a door in his face and locked John Watson out of his own life.

Sherlock's arms are being pulled up with the growth now — the fairy-lights have become tangled and nearly lost among the branches, still attached to Sherlock's wrists. The center of the mass is steadily twirling around itself into a sort of tree trunk, growing up from Sherlock's chest. He is groaning with the weight of it, and the pain of his arms being pulled to their limits.

And the uppermost extremes of the _thing_ are straining against the ceiling as it grows, like Alice in the White Rabbit's house. The ceiling is creaking, then cracking, then bursting. John is throwing himself over Sherlock's upper body and head as best he can to protect him from falling debris. But when John squints up cautiously, the broken ceiling is caught up in the uppermost branches. They are nothing that belong in this humble country inn's ceiling — they resemble great chunks of marble with carved roman numerals on their sides. But they are being swept up toward the sky (which is really just another breakable ceiling) pushed by the flood of ergon from Sherlock's body.

Sherlock.

John is looking at him now and all at once he knows that Sherlock is beyond any help. The roots have burrowed deep into him. Every inch of growth, every movement, is leeching off more of Sherlock's remaining life force and he will die. And John has lain here next to him and let it happen — he _let it happen_.

Sherlock's expression is indifferent, but he is gasping and whimpering in a raspy way. John knows that sound, that kind of pain. It's weak and breathy. The lungs are unable to draw air properly. The sounds are even more pathetic as they're unable to communicate the extent of pain and horror behind them. To think that those sounds should ever come from Sherlock...

John needs to lean down, to force his own breath into Sherlock's lungs so Sherlock can scream properly, but it's as if the future decades of guilt and grief at Sherlock's death are piling on him all at once to smother him. John can hardly breathe. He has to help Sherlock scream and then he can breathe the scream in and give it back to Sherlock and keep him alive —

But he isn't even able to draw breath. He isn't even strong enough to lift himself up to put his mouth over Sherlock's —

The mattress dips down next to him. "John." A hand rests on John's shoulder and far away John hears his own grunt of protest. He has to do this, he has to try to save Sherlock —

"Wake up."

John thrashes as if he's wrapped in a straight jacket. There are things he has to do —

"It's sleep paralysis. Just relax and it will pass."

John fights his own body for the ability to wake up and move again. And then suddenly his limbs are moving and he's awake, looking up at a completely intact ceiling.

Sherlock is sat on the edge of the mattress next to him, fully dressed. The lights are on, it's still nighttime, and there is no ergon visible anywhere. For a confused moment, John gropes in the sheets on his other side for Sherlock's body — but of course he isn't there.

"You were sleeping peacefully when I got out of bed," Sherlock says. "Then a few moments ago you began showing signs of distress. I couldn't fully wake you."

A dream. John looks up. The horrible mass that had dominated the room is gone, but it's as if John senses an afterimage of it. It is as if the _absence_ of it has left a void which is trying to suck John into it.

John scrubs his hands through his hair and tries to reorient himself. "It was..." But then he decides not to tell Sherlock about it. Sherlock isn't interested in things like dreams anyway. "Thank you. For waking me."

"Of course." There is a lingering worry in Sherlock's eyes.

"Pity we couldn't have stayed in bed a bit longer," John says. But he realizes that Sherlock had already gotten up and gotten dressed before he had the nightmare. The outside world always does call him back before John.

"You were planning on making me drink that orange juice, weren't you?" Sherlock asks so petulantly that John laughs and sits up to kiss him. Because changing the subject is another of Sherlock's compromises, between discussing the unpleasantness (which Sherlock isn't good at) and ignoring it outright (which Sherlock is _very_ good at). Sherlock relaxes into the kiss, cupping John's chin and welcoming his tongue into his mouth.

And John has been let back through the door into his life. He never wants to experience this man's death again.


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock retreats under his blanket to think, taking the orange juice with him. He listens to the comforting sounds of John living; bare feet on floorboards and rugs, running water, the rustle of clothing, the sounds of eating and drinking, the clatter of straightening things up. No matter where they are, John makes the same sounds. He is remarkably consistent.

Eventually, John's feet appear under the edge of the blanket. John kneels, knees popping (ah! another John-sound), and lifts the edge. "Will you sleep?"

"Maybe."

"Your body needs rest."

Sherlock shrugs. "My brain doesn't, and it's what matters."

"Oh, well, in that case..." John crawls in and tips Sherlock's head forward with a gentle hand and kisses the top of his head. Sherlock feels the pressure and warmth of John's lips through his hair. It's nice, and it makes a tingle go up his spine. John pets Sherlock's hair. "Brain, at some point, don't forget to bring that gorgeous body to bed so it can rest."

John goes back to bed and Sherlock is glad, because John has slept poorly recently. He has had several nightmares. Sherlock may not need rest as much as most people, but that doesn't meant he doesn't want John to be well-rested. Sherlock wishes he could crawl into John's head to get at the root of the problem, but he imagines that the invasion would damage John's mind. Even treading lightly, he thinks, would leave a path a damage behind him, like a trail of crushed-down heather in an otherwise pristine field. His path would wander and spiral and circle back as he searched. And he will not inflict crop-circles on John's brain, not for anything. He will have to stay outside the skull, just like John did, kissing Sherlock's mind through his skull and skin and hair, because there is no safe way to get any closer.

John seems to be sleeping peacefully now, and Sherlock resumes thinking about the case. Decades ago, a string of unsolved disappearances. A few turn up as corpses, washed up on the shore, or decomposing in the woods. Village-wide caution turns into vigilance, turns into paranoia, turns into superstition. People blame everything from an unusual riptide, to wanderlust, to the supernatural. No solid explanation is ever reached and everyone went on with their lives and _how have they lived with the mystery all this time? How?_

*

When Sherlock hears John stir, he peeks out and notices that it's getting light. He had legitimately intended to get into bed with John and sleep for an hour or two at some point, but it seems to be too late now. John sits up and winces slightly. His back, Sherlock observes, sore from the unfamiliar bed and the previous day's activities. John thinks he is getting old. He's not the type to moan and dye his hair and buy a red sports car, but he does worry about it privately. But Sherlock thinks John is perfect and wouldn't change a single thing about him, not even the damage from the gunshot wound, although it does sometimes cause John pain still. Because every day, every experience of John's life has added together to make the man he is today, and changing any of it would change John, although, paradoxically, Sherlock would still love the new John and think he was just as perfect.

Sherlock had missed some of those days because of Moriarty. More than days. Years. He wasn't there to see them shaping John. There is no blame, not for himself or even for Moriarty (as they had all acted according to their natures and who can blame someone for that?), just regret.

After John has showered and dressed, he looks in at Sherlock again.

"Oh, I forgot to tell you last night with... everything going on. The girl at the coffee shop said she'd put us in touch with her grandfather, who apparently knows about Brazington House. Think it's too early to ring?"

Sherlock steeples his hands in front of his face in silence. So, John got her number as part of the investigation. John got her number _to help Sherlock_. John hovers, waiting for a reply from Sherlock, then gives up on him and rings her. Sherlock can tell, from John's end of the conversation, that they have permission to visit her but no guarantee that her grandfather will talk to them.

"Sherlock, she says —"

"Well, John, shall we go?" Sherlock asks, popping up.

*

Katie meets them at her door, and she and John do the not-quite-a-hug mutual forearm grasp in greeting. Sherlock brushes past them into a sitting room before she can invite him in. No one is around, although Sherlock can hear a baby fussing in the kitchen.

Sherlock crosses the room in a few gigantic strides to look more closely at a glass-enclosed armoire cluttered with a hodgepodge of things. Behind him, John is introducing him and Katie.

"Granddad's just gone to the loo. He'll just be... a few minutes," she says. She's embarrassed, either because the old man is avoiding them, or because he's moving his bowels, or both. _How dull_.

"It's no problem at all," John says. He comes over to see what Sherlock's looking at in the armoire. "Ah, you must collect penguins?"

"Oh. I used to do." Katie-with-a-star laughs self-consciously.

_Yes, how clever and talented one must be, to accumulate so many ceramic penguins._ Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Would you like some coffee?" she asks.

"If it's no trouble," John says.

As soon as she is gone, Sherlock points to the lock on the armoire. "John."

"It's an ergon lock."

"Yes, but what in there is worth locking up with an ergon lock? Not the _admirable_ penguin collection, certainly." Aside from it, there are a few vases, a tea tray, some yellowed postcards, some jewelry, and other unremarkable knickknacks. It's all rather shabby, and Sherlock doubts the total worth of everything in the cabinet could be more than £250.

John glances through the contents. "Mmm. Maybe it's just an old cabinet that happened to have the lock on it — something that had been in the family, was already in the house — and she's just using it to display her collection. Is it even —?" John gingerly tries to open it. Locked. "You think there's something else in there, something valuable?" After a guilty glance toward the kitchen, where they can hear Katie calming the baby and making coffee, John kneels down and looks at the lower shelves. "Sherlock, is this actually related to the case, or are we just being nosy?"

"Quite possibly both." Sherlock puts the ergon duct of his right hand up to the lock and feels around inside of it. It's a good, sophisticated lock — he's experimented with picking ergon locks in the past, but without much success. To unlock an ergon lock, ergon must be fed into the correct combination of the many channels inside the mechanism, and each at its own precise depth. Generally speaking, they're more secure than standard locks with metal keys, but also more problematic, difficult, and expensive.

What is he missing? Sherlock scans the room, the furniture, the pictures on the mantle, then back to the contents of the armoire — there's something out of place here, a clue, an answer — oh. Oh!

Katie comes back into the room then and stops short, staring at them. Sherlock's hand is still on the lock, the rainwater smell of his ergon is heavy in the air, and John is poking around the base of the armoire.

"This... this must —" John starts, with an awkward laugh, getting to his feet.

"You have a lovely collection!" Sherlock tells her grandly.

"Thank you," she says, sounding doubtful. She's carrying a tray with mugs of coffee _(it's better when it's John carrying two cups of coffee —)_ which she sets on the coffee table.

Smiling, Sherlock passes John a mug and takes one for himself, despite not wanting any. "This brooch here particularly caught my eye," he says quickly, pointing at it — a brooch in the shape of a stylized tree, displayed on one of the upper shelves. "Art deco is quite an interest of mine, in fact. And it's such a _whimsical_ piece, isn't it?"

Katie leans in to look at it. Behind her, John shoots Sherlock a questioning look.

"Oh. That belonged to my grandmother."

Sherlock nods as if he's interested. "What's that gem? An amber?" He knows it isn't, but there's something wrong with it, and it's what drew his attention to it. The design of it is far nicer than the muddy-orange, irregularly-shaped stone set in it like a knothole in the tree trunk.

"It's crystal ergon, actually, from her aunt," Katie says.

Sherlock drops his charming persona. "Indeed," he scoffs.

"It's a family heirloom, Sherlock," John says, understanding Sherlock's scorn. "It's got value to them."

"What do you mean?" Katie asks, looking from one to the other.

Sherlock opens his mouth, but John actually steps between him and Katie and answers first. "It's just — crystal ergon is scientifically unproven. It's a lovely notion — someone's last bit of ergon forming into a gem in their dying moments — but it doesn't happen that way. The truth is — not nearly so nice."

"But it — my grandmother said she saw it happen when her aunt —"

"Crystal or agate, usually, dyed to match their primary ergon color," Sherlock says. "Quite the lucrative scam, particularly back in the day, for those who 'found' the gems that came out of the corpse. Dishonest doctors and morticians, sometimes even clergymen, in partnership with the jewelers who set the stones for the bereaved. Sometimes it was even automatically included in the funeral expenses. The family then ignorantly wear the jewelry with the supposed precious memento of their family member, perpetuating the lie —"

"Yes, thank you." John says sharply, then addresses Katie with a softer tone. "There's nothing wrong with valuing it as a memento. But that really is just a stone, not ergon. I've... I've been around death. I've seen the real phenomena that inspired the idea of crystal ergon. It's rare, but ergon _can_ leave the body at the time of death and remain intact, but it doesn't crystalize. It's more of a soft lump. And it's not something anyone should keep — it's dangerous. They have special ways of handling and disposing of it."

The room is silent for several seconds. Katie doesn't seem to know what to say. Sherlock's gut rumbles audibly, and John shoots him a stern look, as if he has done something rude on purpose.

"Ah, I should have offered you some biscuits with the coffee —" Katie says, seeming glad for a change of topic.

"Not necessary. What I want is to speak with your grandfather," Sherlock says.

"I'll just check on him." Katie goes into the hall.

John begins, "Why? Why do you always have to be —"

"Isn't it better to know the truth?"

"Not always! At least, not that way!"

"Still, the brooch isn't valuable enough to lock up, even if they do believe the gem is crystalized ergon. Or would sentimentality be enough to make them do it, John?" Sherlock asks.

"I don't know. Maybe," John says.

Katie comes back alone. "I'm sorry. Now he's saying he won't see you."

"Let me talk to him." Sherlock says. "Is he still in the loo? We can talk through the door —"

"We'll do no such thing," John says, setting down his coffee cup and grasping Sherlock's arm.

"Maybe he'll come around in a day or two. He has his... difficult days," Katie says.

"Well, I'll be in touch. Thanks for your time," John says. "Come on, Sherlock."

Sherlock rolls his eyes and sets down his coffee cup a bit harder than necessary.

"Mr. Holmes —" Katie says suddenly. "I know you think I'm ignorant. Coming here from London, we must all seem like that. It's just, everyone has always told me about crystal ergon, and I never really thought about it before. It's not — not as if I'm ignorant on purpose —"

"And yet, you chose not to educate yourself about it. You have the internet, don't you? A library? Yes? Excellent. Why not avail yourself of them." He opens the door and walks out, John saying soothing words of apology behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

John catches up to Sherlock who is walking back through the village. "All that about ignorance? Bit rich, coming from you, isn't it, Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"The _solar system_!"

"Oh that." Sherlock waves his hand. "My ignorance on that topic is irrelevant, John. You know that I only retain what I need to."

"Oh, so, it's alright for you to be ignorant about things that aren't important to your work, but it's not alright if other people are?" John forces an insincere smile.

"And if I kept a pretty pebble on my mantlepiece, and told everyone — all our clients, all your friends — that it was, in fact, a _fallen star_ because I hadn't bothered learning about the solar system —?"

"Yeah, alright, I'd tell you you were an idiot."

"See?" Sherlock says.

"But that's different, because we were her guests. She was helping us — which she didn't have to do."

" _Trying_ to help us. Mostly wasting our time. Let's get back to the inn. Get some real coffee and Mrs. Hart's list of sources."

"Alright." John sighs and thinks over their conversation as they walk. All of this over one person who isn't even important to the case they're working on, not knowing much about a rare phenomenon.

 _Zicah orbs_ are the are the bits of ergon that occasionally fall from the ergon ducts at the time of death. They are about the size of large marbles, the softness of thick gel, and have the same color and glow as the individual's ergon did in life. They hold massive amounts of latent energy, which can discharge explosively (everyone in the army repeated the same bit of folklore about a hopelessly outnumbered soldier who picked up the zicah from his fallen buddy and threw it like a grenade at the enemy, wiping them all out). John has seen them a handful of times, on hospital floors and crime scenes, being photographed by police photographers and cleaned up by trained disposal teams.

"You do understand that zicah isn't relevant to the average person's life," John says. "People are unlikely to ever come into contact with it. Unless they're us."

Sherlock surprises John by catching his hand and lacing their fingers together. "We _are_ us."

John smiles. "Yeah."

*

The first time John ever sees Sherlock Holmes' face (at St. Barts, with Mike Stamford by his side) it is lit by the glow of a few zicah orbs — green and pale blue and dark blue. They belong to the hospital, properly donated for experimentation and chemically treated to stabilize their power, but still... they are eerie and beautiful and taboo and _dangerous_.

*

It's a few months after their first meeting. They've come (along with Greg and his team and all the necessary warrants) to the home of a murder suspect, only to interrupt him arguing with his wife, who is trying to hide several fresh injuries. Sally and John (through an unspoken understanding that, out of all of them, they are likely the two least-intimidating to a battered woman) bring her out into the garden, away from her husband and the chaos in the house.

She is refusing to believe he has done anything wrong, despite the series of old fading bruises on her face (and new tender areas that will darken by tomorrow), despite him being taken away in handcuffs, despite the police searching her house. "But I love him," she says, even after Sally explains things.

John doesn't ask to inspect her injuries — he knows she won't agree, and he is here unofficially anyway — but he observes what he can, just in case. He has learned that sometimes the people who need help the most simply won't accept it. Sally speaks in soothing tones about domestic abuse support groups, therapy, and ways the woman can get out of her situation and improve her life. ("No. I love him.") For all the good it does. Finally Sally gives her a business card and tells her to call at any time for any reason, then exchanges a look with John. They won't get through to her, at least not today, and they both know it.

Then Sally focuses on something behind John and her face hardens. John turns and finds Sherlock standing and listening to them keenly, about twenty feet away. Sherlock, who would swoop in and do more harm than good if allowed to question this woman now. John goes over to him, to head him off if necessary.

"She keeps saying that she loves him...?" Sherlock is staring at the woman over John's shoulder.

"Yeah. In denial about everything. She may come around, with time." John shrugs. "Hearing the things Sergeant Donovan said and getting outside perspectives can help. From the right people. It's, uh — it's a delicate process."

"Don't worry — I don't wish to speak to her. I just — why keep saying she loves him? It's irrelevant to the situation. Her feelings have nothing to do with it."

"I don't know. It's just how people are. It shouldn't be an excuse, at least not for something like this. Little things maybe, you know, compromising, forgiving out of a willingness to keep the relationship stable —."

"But _murder_ , John. We found two zicah orbs, bright violet, matching the victim's ergon — bundled in cling film (as if that could somehow contain them) and hidden in his toolbox. He is clearly guilty of that crime and at least three others, and I have no desire to question anyone who would insist on telling me she _loves_ him instead of answering my questions." Sherlock's nostrils flare. "All my career I've heard it over and over — 'I love him' — as motive, an excuse, a justification. Misused, mistreated, pointless words, repeated to the point of semantic satiation."

"Alright," says John, caught off guard. "Alright."

"I'm done here."

That night, John thinks over Sherlock's reaction. He wonders if it could be related to Mrs. Hudson's past, her husband, and the story of how she and Sherlock met. John has never heard the story in its entirety, but suspects domestic abuse played a part. He doesn't ask.

*

Much later, he wonders if it was about something else.

It is the first Christmas season after... After.

Everyone in John's life goes overboard with the festivities, as if leaving John alone for an hour without conversation or Christmas music or heaps of food will reduce him to a sobbing mess. Everyone is careful to not mention Sherlock, or the work they'd done together, or John's blog, even the people John only met because of Sherlock and really has nothing else in common with.

One evening, he manages to slip out to go to the shops — just to the shops up the street, five minutes, to get some things they've run out of. They look at him dubiously, but he has his keys and jacket and his happy face and is out the door before anyone can volunteer to come with him. 

In the queue, the couple in front of him are keeping their faces and tones neutral, but are sniping at each other. Because of the holidays, John thinks — too much stress, too much time together. Disagreeing over something stupid — what they're buying — and it's starting to go too far. John tries not to hear them, but he can't. Wants to run away, but he can't.

"Yes, well, I love you too," the man says sarcastically, using the words to wound, to win the argument. She turns her face away from him and presses her fist to her mouth and neither of them speak.

Those words. They get into John's head. Eat away at him invisibly as he smiles and laughs and hugs his way through the rest of the parties and meals and the _just-dropping-by_ visits, until it is all over and —

The silence is heavy and empty in ways it wouldn't have been without all of the non-stop merriment before it —

And it all comes together then. _God no_ , did Sherlock react so strongly to that woman defending her husband during that murder case because he'd only ever heard words of love when they were flung around so carelessly? Said to hurt someone, or to justify hurting someone? Had anyone ever said them to him, said them and meant them? Before... before it was too late?

All alone, John sits on the couch with his body perfectly symmetrical as it all—

_I'm a doctor_

_Let me come through_

_Let me come through, please_

_He's my friend_

_He's my friend_

Because everyone has been acting so _abnormally normal_ and keeping John too busy (no, no, John can't just blame them — it's his life, after all, his mind, his fault) to even think about Sherlock. A moment to look at a roomful of people he cares about and see the place Sherlock _isn't_ , or to pick out a gift that he won't buy for Sherlock and stare longingly at it in a shop, or to smile at the things about Christmas that Sherlock hated — or secretly enjoyed. Bits of mourning scattered throughout days of Life Going On. They haven't happened, and they were supposed to happen, and so they're happening all at once, right now.

_'I love him'_

_As motive, an excuse, a justification_

_Misused, mistreated, pointless words_

_Let me come through, please_

_He's my friend_

_He's my friend_

*

The first Christmas that Sherlock is alive again, they just have an informal evening in. Mrs. Hudson makes a traditional Christmas dinner, and John's contribution of a store-bought tin of biscuits looks commercial and cheap in comparison. She sets a fourth place for an absent Mycroft, but Sherlock doesn't comment on it. They have a lovely meal with the three of them anyway. Mycroft turns up for dessert though — a fact Sherlock works into the conversation several times (with no attempt at subtlety). Mycroft turns down a second helping of crème brûlée when Mrs. Hudson offers it, though, although John thinks he secretly wants it.

They exchange presents after dessert — nothing special, nothing too extravagant, or overly-meaningful and that feels _right_. Everyone had tried too hard while Sherlock was dead, but now that he's back, they can be comfortable together again. Comfortable enough that Sherlock kisses John briefly on the mouth in thanks for his present. They've kissed in public before (street corner, coffee shop, back alley, and once, memorably, while working undercover as gardeners) but never in front of people they know. Mrs. Hudson coos, and John's face feels too hot and he's sweating from the Christmas jumper and the fire. Mycroft, looking uncomfortable, leaves soon after and Sherlock laughs like he's drunk, even though he's only had a little.

Later on, after Mrs. Hudson has gone to visit Mrs. Turner, John sits with his tea and falls into a comfortable stupor gazing into the fire. He thinks about the effort involved in standing up to get either his laptop or the newspaper (both out of reach) and decides they're not worth it.

Sherlock is sitting in his chair, nursing a glass of brandy. He's silent, but he's jostling one foot and fidgeting with something tucked next to him in the chair where John can't quite see it. The third time Sherlock opens his mouth to speak but closes it again John decides to say something about it.

"Sherlock?"

"Merry Christmas, John," Sherlock says quickly, as if he were going to say it anyway. He picks up a wrapped package from his side and holds it out toward John.

"Oh. Thank you," John says, surprised. They'd exchanged presents earlier, after all. The package is soft and the paper crinkles as John feels it. Sherlock is looking at it instead of John's face. Something is going on, something more than Sherlock simply giving him a present, John realizes, feeling nervous.

When he slips his finger under an edge of the paper to open it, Sherlock speaks up.

"No — start with the card."

So John opens the attached card and reads Sherlock's handwriting.

_John, this present inadequately represents my love for you. —Sherlock._

John stares at it. Aside from questioning the sentiments of others, Sherlock has never used the word 'love' in John's hearing — not for anything animate anyway. He has not even made any statements in the 'care-about-you' or 'fond-of-you' or 'need-you' range. But this, this is so very deliberate; Sherlock uses words precisely, especially in writing.

John puts the package aside and gets up. Sherlock's eyes widen. John goes to him and curls down over him, pulling Sherlock against his chest.

"Thank you, Sherlock," John says into Sherlock's hair. He thinks it would be too condescending to say, 'I'm proud of you,' but he is ridiculously proud. He understands how hard this had to have been.

"Aren't you going to open it?" Sherlock asks. "You're supposed to open it."

John smiles, because of course Sherlock always protects his heart, so he has to pretend that it really is just a present and that the words on the card are something casual. "I love you, too."

Sherlock goes quiet and still and relaxes gradually against John. John strokes Sherlock's nape with his thumb, until Sherlock tilts his head back. John kisses him sideways, tastes brandy.

"Thank you for the present," John says.

"You really are meant to open it though, John."

"Hmm." With a trailing hand on Sherlock's shoulder, John goes back to his chair. "Clothes, isn't it?" he asks, feeling the package. "Not another jumper?" he asks, teasingly.

"I gave you two earlier."

"So you did." John is wearing one of them already. "Wooly socks? Thick and practical?"

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

"No? Pants then. Must be pants."

Sherlock actually laughs at that.

It is, in fact, a dressing gown, of the lightweight sort Sherlock himself likes. John slips it on over his clothes.

"It's perfect. Thank you."

"It's inadequate," Sherlock says. "I tried, but it's inadequate. Everything is. Everything..."

"It's alright. I understand."


	10. Chapter 10

When Sherlock and John leave the inn again it's late morning, although it's still dark because of heavy clouds. The air is still, as if trapped, and walking through the village streets they strongly smell the soil, the decay of vegetation, and always the sea. As they pass some houses, Sherlock's stomach grumbles again at the smell of food cooking, but he feels disconnected from the sensation of hunger. He doesn't want to eat — not yet, anyway.

John steps to the side of the narrow road to let a battered pickup with fishing tackle in the bed go by. As it does, the driver — with his face impassive and a cap pulled low over his eyes — slows and stares at them through the window. Sherlock makes and holds eye contact with him until he has passed. Something about the hard look lingers in the same way as the exhaust fumes.

John looks back down at a piece of paper in his hands. He'd apparently sweet-talked it out of Mrs. Hart back at the inn and brought it up to the room for Sherlock to see. It's printed with frolicking gingerbread men and anthropomorphized rolling pins and whisks in the margins, with the words at the top: _Shopping! Mustn't forget to Buy..._ It's appalling. But below that, written in violent ink, is a short list of names, phone numbers, and partial addresses of some of the people in the area who might have information for them about the town's history. She'd also given John another piece of paper — a hand-written family tree of the Brazington family, more complete than the sketchy information they'd found online. John has it tucked inside his notebook and Sherlock is eager to look over it later, to match up the names and dates listed on it with the limited data he has.

They pause so John can consult a map on his phone. Although the village is small enough to see in its entirety from the high points, the roads are winding and narrow and seem to play tricks as they branch out and vanish behind hills. The houses look confusingly similar too, crouched close to the earth in hollows, with their gardens well-maintained yet tall and dense.

As they stand there, Sherlock's skin starts to crawl with the sensation of being watched, as if by many sets of eyes from behind curtains and bushes or even from the deep grass. He knows that it's not actually possible to feel someone's gaze, but the feeling is there all the same. It's ridiculous and utterly unacceptable. He turns his back to the imaginary eyes defiantly and looks out toward the sea. Actually, people probably _are_ watching them. In a village like this, he and John are news. But it feels like more than curiosity about a couple of outsiders. It feels more like...

John touches Sherlock's arm. A cold drizzle has started, Sherlock realizes, and his face is damp from it. John has thrust the paper and his mobile into his pocket and is shielding his eyes. John's hand stays in Sherlock's shoulder, guiding him with gentle pressure as they walk. He does that sometimes, but today there is something rigid in the touch. John is frustrated with Sherlock's lack of social niceties earlier. Really, if John is going to get upset over things like that, then it's his own fault. He should know what to expect from Sherlock by now.

John is saying something about where they're going and who they're going to talk to and how Mrs. Hart already rang to get permission so John and Sherlock are expected and they're close now but they just have to find the right house. It's all practical stuff, necessary even, and John is taking care of it all, but Sherlock hates it for that reason. John would be happier with a gun in his hand. The sooner they get to the running and shooting part of the case the better. There is danger here — the kind of danger John needs — and Sherlock wishes it would stop lurking and just come out into the open.

Hmm. A hat might actually be useful once in a while, Sherlock thinks as the raindrops become stingingly cold. Not _the_ hat, though. Just _a_ hat.

They approach the front door of a house. Sherlock arranges his face into an expression he thinks will get the best results. _A good impression, a normal bloke, no funny business here._ John has taken his hand away from Sherlock's shoulder, possibly for the same reasons.

A man opens the door slowly and invites them inside and he and John start exchanging boring small talk. Sherlock tunes it out and studies the man. Bit past middle age. His lips move slightly when John speaks — hard of hearing, then, trying to read lips to fill in the gaps. Wary of Londoners. Not unwilling to speak to them, but seats them in hard wooden chairs at the kitchen table instead of in the more comfortable sitting room in the hopes they won't stay long. Sherlock reads it all — the man, the room, the history of the house, puts it all together.

"You're the police officer's son," Sherlock says, breaking in on their worthless conversation to announce his deduction. "The one who vanished the night the house sank — believed to have been inside at the time, as the police had been called to the house that evening. His body was never recovered. Brilliant." He rubs his hands. "You think he died a hero and you want everyone to know it — you've clung on to that belief for all these years, every though no one really knows what happened. But you have secret doubts. Part of you wonders — and worries — about what _competent investigators_ might discover about his role in things."

John slaps his hand down on the table near Sherlock, not quite hard enough to be blatantly rude, but enough to get his attention. He's glaring at Sherlock. Why? Oh — Sherlock mentally plays back the things John said on the way here. Yes, John had already told him some of that information, and now he realizes that Sherlock wasn't listening. Yes. And perhaps blurting out the bit about this man's doubts about this father wasn't exactly tactful, from _some_ points of view. Sherlock waves John away and turns back to the man.

"Now, spare no detail about the Brazington family, the disappearances, your father's involvement, no matter how trivial it may seem. _Do_ spare us the embellished folk tale." Sherlock gestures vaguely to Mrs. Hart's book, which John has put on the table along with the family tree. "And do resist the urge to exaggerate your father's _heroism_."

The man — what was he called? Sherlock thinks it might be Bernard — looks from one to the other of them, his eyes bulging out a bit.

"We just need the truth as plainly as possible," John says, trying to smooth things over. "These sorts of stories tend to grow in the retelling over the years, you know. We see it all the time. And we've already got _that_ story from Mrs. Hart. What we need now is what you can tell us — things you may have known about, maybe things your father told you? The local police _were_ investigating the things that were going on..."

The man gives Sherlock a final dark look and turns fully toward John. "My father made an effort not to talk about his work at home — he considered it gossiping or worse. But he did tell me about them Brazington boys. Two of them went to my school, a few years behind me. Didn't really know them. Can't say we ever spoke. But my father wanted me to stay away from them and maybe it was a good thing I did, since both of them wound up dead before long."

"How did they die?" Sherlock asks.

The man rubs his face, stubble rasping. "People started vanishing, you know. It was a while before any bodies turned up, so nobody knew what was going on. They told us it was unnatural strong tides that year and to stay out of the water. But — you try and tell boys that. All of us used to go fishing and swimming and we all knew where the currents had always been tricky and that there are plenty of rocks to get yourself bashed about on, so we thought we could handle it. But one day that boy... funny thing with a red birthmark on his face, the smallest boy..."

John consults the family tree. "Uh... Walter?"

"Yeah, Walter. Walt. Got himself washed out to sea with a whole mob of people watching from the shore, helpless. Queerest thing. Changes a community, something like that. Not in your London, but here... Said he screamed for help into the night and even the strongest men couldn't swim out to him with those tides." Bernard shook his head.

"And the other boy?" Sherlock prompts.

Bernard answers the question, but continues to face John. "Well. Survived to the end, right up until the house sank. Found dead later in the garden not twenty feet from where his front door should have been."

"That would have been... Joseph?" John asks, and the man nods once. "So your father wanted you to stay away from them — why? Did the family have a reputation?"

The man leans back in his chair, making it creak. "Everyone in the village knew them. They had more money than most. But not a bad reputation, no. But... you hear things as a child, things you don't always understand, and sometimes they make more sense later. One of them Brazington men — Howard... Not as buttoned down as the rest. Always getting into scraps and running off for months. Brought back a foreign wife one time. Nobody knew what to make of her."

John nods at the family tree and writes things in his notebook as Bernard speaks.

"Well she dies mysteriously and people said he did it in a temper. Then before long folks start going missing — mainly folks who all had something to do with the family — and he's the sort of bloke you might suspect in that situation. People did, everyone did, and it finally led to a great row up on the cliffs there right behind the house." Bernard gestures toward the Brazington property. "We get a knock at the door, and it's someone come to summon my father to break up it up, and he leaves his supper on the table — this very table — and rushes out."

"Who was involved, exactly?" John asks.

"Everyone." Bernard says as if it had been obvious. "Folk from the town, families of the missing people, even some of the Brazingtons, they have Howard up here at the edge of the cliff." He stretches his hands up, one spread wide and waving to indicate a crowd and the other with the index finger up to represent a lone man. "They want to know 'what have you done with them?' And my father arrives on the scene just in time to see him jump."

Bernard pauses dramatically and no one says anything. A ghost of a grin flashes across his face as he apparently thinks the two of them are shocked and enthralled by the story. John's face is turned toward his notes, his pen still. Sherlock —

_Falling, falling. Heart beating like its purpose is to demolish his chest from the inside. Heart attack is a serious risk. The mind, usually so reliable, now foggy. Raindrops seem to hang suspended all around him, like an effect in a film._

"Nothing my father can do. Too late — Howard's down there on the rocks, broken, sea washing away the blood, everyone staring at him. They're all thinking _this_ is confirmation enough that he was the murderer — he'd been caught out and chose to die instead of live with the disgrace."

_Seconds stretch to feel like minutes. His is usually able to track time accurately, but the brain believes these are the final seconds of his life and is panicking. The fear of waiting too long, falling too far before acting. But he can't do it too soon or John will see. The sniper will see._

"Everyone said there had been a great flash of orange light as he fell. Them Brazingtons all had orange ergon and prided themselves on the particular color. _Brazington Orange._ The body does try to break the fall whether or not the mind wanted to jump. But they say it's not so easy to do that — takes a hell of a lot of ergon to effect the air pressure enough to slow the fall."

_Sherlock's stomach is clenching tighter than a fist around its contents. Right behind it, the organ that produces and stores ergon aches as his ducts try in vain to draw the energy needed to save his life. But it's depleted. Up on the roof, Moriarty had tortured him, intentionally triggering Sherlock's self-preservation reflexes over and over until he had nothing left. Sherlock has to reach deeper, deeper —_

"My father couldn't stop it. Didn't matter if the man had been a killer or not — it was still horrible and it haunted him, seeing it, the rest of his days. Took something from him, like. Got in him and changed him forever."

John clears his throat, and Sherlock just can't look at him.


End file.
